


Intermission

by dornfelder



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, episode coda, radio silence, s06e05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 05:30:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8877814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dornfelder/pseuds/dornfelder
Summary: Misery loves company. It's nothing more than that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Uhm. Well. Since you're asking, why, yes, I _have_ stopped watching Teen Wolf, like, two seasons ago. But - uhm - I _may_ in fact have watched the last episode for no other reason but to see Stiles and Peter interact, because my lasting obsession with Peter Hale made me curious. And then, inevitably, fic happened...

On the platform, hidden in a corner that is filled with debris and dirt, Peter pushes him against a wall and pulls down his pants. 

"Yes," Stiles says, "Yes. Come on, do it –"

Peter thruts into him without any hesitation. Stiles has to turn his head, press his mouth against the dirty fabric of his shirt, and muffle his cries. Peters hands on his hips are like shackles that hold him in place as he forces his way inside, pulling Stiles toward him. The world narrows down to sensation: pain, and heat where Peter is pressed against his back, and harsh breaths that leave his throat as almost-sobs.

Peter isn't careful with him, and Stiles wouldn't want him to be. He pushes back, lets Peter pound into him with harsh grunts, low animal noises that indicate violence rather than pleasure. Stiles breathes through the pain, inhales dusty, dry air.

**********

It starts after Stiles has left Peter standing on the platform, and gone back into the waiting hall. He doesn't know what to do, so he aimlessly wanders around, tries some more doors - to no avail. Peter stays close, lurking in the shadows, pacing much like Stiles does. 

Time passes, it's impossible to tell how much. Stiles doesn't feel thirst or hunger, he doesn't need to sleep.

In this crowded room, this space full of people who might as well not be there, Peter is the only one who sees him. More than that, Peter _knows_ him, and the knowledge helps. It helps, having someone to remind him of who he is. What's really happening. That he's not actually waiting for a train.

He feels the pull of indifference, of stupor, and resists. It takes effort. As hours pass without the ghostriders to interrupt the monotony of the waiting hall, he finds himself at the verge of drifting off – floating, in a weightless, carefree existence, concerned only briefly with missing the train. Calm, clouded, reduced to a vague feeling of contentedness. 

It's Peter's who pulls him out of it, shaking his shoulder, growling at him as Stiles' comes back to himself and looks at him.

"Thanks," Stiles says after a moment. Peter bares his teeth, then turns away from him to hide in the dark.

**********

But Peter seeks him out again and again, unerringly, as if he's incapable of staying away – it's like he, too, neeeds someone who remembers him, who _acknowledges_ him. He craves attention, demands it, and Stiles gives it: talking to Peter means he doesn't have to be alone with his thoughts, his memories, the pain in his chest that makes it difficult to breathe. 

So they talk, they argue, they conspire, and sometimes they stay silent, sitting next to each other with no other purpose but to keep each other from falliny prey to the siren song of the waiting hall.

Stiles gets treated to the full expanse of Peter's mercurial temper: charming and menacing in turn. Sometimes he's almost pleasant company, but always with the underlying threat of violence, even though it's never quite unleashed. He's not an ally, there's no loyalty in their temporary truce. They're unwilling co-workers, and Stiles isn't stupid enough to think that if Peter finds a way to get out, he'll waste a second thinking of Stiles. Quite the opposite: given a choice, Peter wouldn't hesitate to sacrifice Stiles if it gave him a chance to escape. 

In a way, it's liberating to know exactly where they stand. Peter is an asshole, which means that Stiles can be an asshole right back, can turn all his frustration and fear and pain into rage and spiteful words, can lash out and shove until Peter's back hits a wall. Peter snarls furiously, and lunges, grabs him and throws h him to the ground. 

Stiles gets up, wiping his bloody mouth. He can already feel his split lip closing; injuries don't last very long, unless it's the ghostriders inflicting them, then they're usually fatal. 

But here and now, his body heals, and it makes their fight that much better. Still, he isn't a trained fighter like Peter and finds himself outmatched. Finally Peter presses him against the wall. His cheek scrapes over grimy concrete. Stiles winces.

"Nice try," Peter says, sounding thoroughly unimpressed. "But that's not how we play this game."

For emphasis, he presses against Stiles, covers him. Stiles' arms and legs are spread and he's held in place by Peter's weight and bulk and his body heat. It slowly seeps into him through the soft cotton of his clothes. Stiles closes his eyes, inhales. Peter is so warm, so close. Alive and breathing, the only thing standing between him and despair. 

The train station is always a little cold, part of the illusion, maybe. Such a bleak, dystopian place couldn't possibly be warm and cozy. The absence of warmth, the absence of anything bright or happy might be one thing that makes people succumb to the numbness more readily, the only way to escapte the desolation. Staying awake, alert, means he feels it much more keenly: the bare, dark grey walls and wooden benches of the station hall, the blue-ish twilight of the platform; echoing spaces that offer no comfort. 

This, though. This is anything but bleak: it's raw, it hurts, and it makes him feel alive. He's been held here for hours, days, maybe weeks, it's impossible to say, and this – this is blessedly real. 

Peter squeezes his wrist so tightly that there would be bruises, if they didn't heal. The rise and fall of his chest, the solid strength of him, it's almost too much. Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself feel. Whatever it is Peter means to do to him, he'll take it, as long as it's more of this: touch, contact, something between him and nothingness.

"So how _do_ we play this game, then?" he asks, not quite knowing what he's hoping for, or maybe he does: there's a strange, unsettling energy running through him, as if his body knows more than he does. 

Peter's lips graze his ears. "What was that, Stiles? Do you _want_ me to take advantage of you?" For emphasis, he pushes his hips against Stiles' ass. 

Oh. 

So that's how it is.

Stiles doesn't think, doesn't hesitate. He pushes back against Peter, muttering, "You're not _taking_ anything." 

"I could." 

"Why don't you? Or are you all bark and not bite?"

Peter growls. "You're asking for it." His hands slide over Stiles' thighs, he grips tightly, tugs at his pants. 

Impatient, Stiles pushes Peter's hands away, reaches for his belt. The the belt buckle clinks, the sound clear and audible in the vast room, like a church bell ringing. 

Peter lets go of him with a curse, and wildly tugs at his own belt. 

They don't bother to do more than push down their pants and briefs. Sudden, breathless arousal courses through Stiles, makes him throw back his head and gasp as Peter's hand, cruel and callused, closes around him and starts stroking him. The touch is too rough and dry to feel good, and yet … and yet.

"Are you going to fuck me, or what?" Stiles says, voice not quite steady. 

Peter spits, then a wet finger roughly seeks entrance to Stiles' body. Stiles tries to breathe through it, the painful, uncomfortable sensation. He should be glad that Peter is at least somewhat considerate, but impatience wins out and he snarls, "Do it already," knowing fully well that Peter's not going to be gentle. 

And he isn't. Fuck, it hurts, and Stiles hisses and grits his teeth and claws at the wall, helplessly.

**********

One time sets a precedence, and they fuck pretty much whenever one of them wants it, needs it. There's nothing else to do but talk, and argue, and fuck, and sometimes Stiles instigates a fight, knowing it will end with him on the floor, or against the wall, or on his knees with Peter's dick in his mouth. 

They fuck on the platform, inside the tunnel, where the imposed fear threatens to choke him. It's too much. His heartbeat skyrockets, and it isn't until he hears himself making soft, helpless noises, that he realizes that he might actually die here. He shakes his head, wildly, and then suddenly Peter pulls out, slides an arm around his waist and pulls him out of the tunnel, back to the platform. Stiles is shaking, can't seem to draw a breath. He sinks down onto the floor. Sweat cools on his skin; his heart keeps beating furiously. 

Peter, standing in front of him, doesn't say anything. Then suddenly he springs into action, kneels in front of Stiles and pulls his thighs apart, and before Stiles can do or say anything to protest, he takes Stiles' dick into his mouth and blows him, dirty and expertly, until Stiles' body, confused by contradicting emotions, settles for arousal. He comes with a sob and the relief almost makes him pass out.

**********

One time Peter fucks him behind one of the pillars, right in front of the benches and barely out of sight. From his position, Stiles can see the empty stares of people who don't seem to notice anything is amiss; they keep staring straight ahead. He closes his eyes and focuses on Peter's hands, Peter's body, Peter's smell and the smooth texture of his shirt against Stiles' chest. Peter's body is familiar to him now, the rhythm of his breathing, mid-fuck; the soft little sound he makes right before he comes. Stiles tries very hard not to think of Malia, the only person he's ever slept with, the way she used to look at him when she was riding him, eyes supernaturally blue. Now he's having sex with her father, in this bizarre, monstrous dream-space, and Peter's eyes stare at him with the same glazed, self-absorbed look right before he comes.

**********

They still try to find a way out, try to find patterns of the ghostriders' appearance, search for clues. They even try to talk to some of the others, but without anything to hold their interest, they soon return to their weird slumber, half-absent. 

Stiles learns their names, one by one. Tara, the girl with the black hair and lip piercing. Mrs. Haberman, who's on her way to visit her husband in Colorado. John D. Schultz, a vet who thinks he's meeting his former team in L. A., his grin weirdly infectious and vibrant in a place where vacant stares turn faces into studies of flaws and blemishes.

**********

Then everything changes, and Peter makes a decision, and for a second, Stiles almost loses what little hold he has on his emotions. For a second, he wants to plead, wants to beg. Don't leave me. It's in his head, almost on his lips, but he knows that Peter would offer him nothing but a pitying smile, so he asks for the one thing that Peter might give him, the thing that is his last hope.

"Stiles," Peter says, as if he's hearing the words Stiles hasn't spoken, "let's not have a moment."

"If you survive, you have to find my friends for me, okay, you have to tell them about me 'cause they're not gonna remember me; tell them –"

" _If_ I survive, I am going to get as far away from Beacons Hills as I possibly can. And _if_ I happen along one of your below than average friends, _and_ it doesn't inconvenience me, I might … mention you to them." 

"Please," Stiles says, he doesn't want to, but it's beyond him now. He's scared, deeply scared. He knows nothing he can say or do will sway Peter, will magically turn him into the kind of person who cares, but in this moment, he has nothing left to lose, no dignity, no power, nothing. Nothing but a child's wordless plea, conveying all his pain and fear.

Peter turns away from him. Stiles exhales, then forces him self to take a deep breath. He has to fight not to reach out and hold Peter back- He swallows, hands clenching into fists. He's not going to give Peter the satisfaction of seeing the depth of his despair. 

Seconds pass. He doesn't hear any footsteps. Then Peter's hand touches his hair and Stiles flinches, taken by surprise. Peter is suddenly closer than before, close enough they're almost touching.

"Oh, Stiles," Peter says, almost regretfully, and Stiles, who can't stand being pitied, much less by Peter, and who never knows when to shut up, asks, "What? You want a last fuck before you jump?" 

Peter stares at him. "Actually …" he says, lips forming a smirk. "What a great idea. Yes, I would like that. Wouldn't you?" 

Stiles lets himself be pulled, moved, goes down to his knees when Peter shoves. His heart is pounding. One last time to feel something, anything: pain and arousal and excitement, before the veil closes around him. One last time before he's going to be truly alone, and who says that even if Peter gets through, he'll remember Stiles? They have been erased - what if the spell affects Peter as well, as soon as he reaches the other side? 

One last time. It's all he can think while Peter rips off his shirt, pushes him down onto a plastic sheet they've used before as a mattress, on his back. He spreads his legs for Peter to kneel betwen them. 

One last time. He closes his eyes as Peter's hands slide over his body and tries to memorize everything, every sound and sensation. He squeezes his eyes shut against tears, against Peter's smug grin, only that Peter doesn't sound smug at all as he whispers, urgently, "Stiles. Stiles. Open your eyes."

Reluctantly, Stiles obeys. 

Peter buries one hand in his hair to hold his head in place and kisses him. 

They've never kissed before. For a second Stiles wonders what kept them from doing it, only that it was pretty clear that Peter didn't want to. It's different now, and maybe he should resist, but he doesn't. 

The kiss itself is an act of taking possession, of staking a claim. Stiles submits to it, allows himself to cherish it, closes his eyes again and kisses Peter back. They keep kissing until Stiles feels like he might faint, out of breath and dizzy, and even then, Peter doesn't move away, doesn't pull back to lift his hips and push into him. Instead Peter's spit-slicked hand closes around his cock, and Peter strokes him roughly a couple of times, until Stiles is fully hard and gasping. 

Stiles gets what Peter is about to do a mere second before it happens, before Peter straddles him, positions himself, and sinks down. He's so tight it's painful even for Stiles, abrasive and too dry, but he forgets all about it as Peter starts to move above him, all around him. He stares up at Peter's contorted face, and lifts himself up as much as he can to pull Peter toward him, an almost-kiss, lips touching between harsh, panting breaths and gasps. 

Orgasm rushes through him, too soon, but Peter doesn't seem to mind. He jerks himself off, almost brutally. The sound he makes is different this time, an almost pained, drawn-out moan. His come paints Stiles' stomach and chest in hot, almost scalding spurts. 

Stiles closes his eyes. Peter's hands slide over his chest, rubbing his come into Stiles' skin. 

In the distance, they hear hoofbeats: the ghostriders on their way out. 

Peter freezes. He bends over Stiles, kisses him quickly, one hand cupping Stiles' jaw, thumb brushing over Stiles' cheek in a fleeting caress. The next second, he jumps to his feet and pulls up his pants. He starts running toward the end of the platform, just as the riders emerge from the tunnel. 

Stiles struggles to get up forom the ground. He watches, numbly, as the riders pass, as they get closer to the portal, as Peter starts to run, then jumps. The portal swallows him and Stiles stares at it. Slowly, with a sinking feeling in his gut, he realizes that Peter didn't promise him anything, never bothered to offer any reassurances, and in all likelihood really just wanted a final fuck. He'll probably never waste another thought on Stiles. 

He wills his hands not to tremble as he picks his clothes up from the ground and gets dressed.

**********

The radio. He hears their voices, they talk to him and seem to know who he is, or maybe just _that_ he is, and then it's over and he keeps sitting in the empty room for a long time. He recalls their words, memorizes them, and after a while, he rises from his seat and returns to the waiting hall. 

There's an empty seat on the bench, right next to Mrs. Haberman. He sits down quietly. Peter's scent still lingers on his skin, but that will fade soon; it always does. 

For a second, Stiles imagines what it would be like to leave, what it would feel like to return home and have his father look at him, say his name again. To see Lydia and Scott, and Malia, smile at him in the sunlight. Will Peter tell them? Has he even made it through? 

It gets harder and harder to resist the pull of the magic, and Stiles stops trying. After all, there is no more reason for him to stay awake. He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

_The End_


End file.
